


Could Be Dangerous

by ChildOfTheBarricade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildOfTheBarricade/pseuds/ChildOfTheBarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had woken up to a Sherlockless flat, which was unusual, Sherlock almost always at least spent breakfast with him before he dashed off after some criminal or other. Not that he'd minded. The flat was so quiet without Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be Dangerous

John had woken up to a Sherlockless flat, which was unusual, Sherlock almost always at least spent breakfast with him before he dashed off after some criminal or other. Not that he'd minded. The flat was so quiet without Sherlock.

He spent the day blogging uninterruptedly, watching the crap television Sherlock would never allow, and drinking tea. It was relaxing... for a while. It was now past six and there was still no sign of his enigmatic flatmate. John began to worry. Sherlock hadn't left a note and he hadn't heard from him all day. John had been texting him since lunchtime, asking when he'd be home, but had received no reply.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He knocked on her door and waited only a few moments before it was pulled open. "Have you heard from Sherlock today? He was gone when I got up this morning and he isn't replying to my texts."

"No, dear, I don't know where he's gone. He never said anything about going out today."

"He's probably just at Bart's doing research for something. Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine."

"Let me know when he gets home." She smiled and closed the door.

Four hours later and still no Sherlock, John called Molly and Lestrade, neither of which had seen him either.

Finally, his last resort, John texted Mycroft.

Where is your brother - JW

My brother? - MH

He's been gone all day - JW

He's been at Baker Street all day. - MH

No, he hasn't - JW

Will look into it. Let me know if he turns up. - MH

Keep me posted - JW

"Shit." Something was wrong. If not, Mycroft would have known where he was. Kidnapped? Not likely. It would be incredibly difficult to kidnap Sherlock Holmes and he would have left John some sort of message. Maybe they drugged him...

John's thoughts were interrupted by the text tone on his phone and he let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was from Sherlock, although his relief quickly turned into panic.

138 Northrup Road, East London. Could be dangerous. Please come - SH

On my way. Are you hurt? - JW

Quite - SH

It's alright, I'm coming - JW

John ran out of 221B pulling his coat on and calling Lestrade as he hurtled down the stairs.

"John, don't panic, he's going to be fine," Lestrade assured him.

He was in a cab now. A cab that wouldn't go fast enough.

"Listen, can you hurry up? My friend's in trouble."

"Yeah, alright, mate."

I'm in the cab, are you ok? - JW

He received no reply for almost ten minutes until finally...

Lost a lot of blood. Losing consciousness. Please hurry. Think I'm on the third floor - SH

"Jesus."

Hold on, I'm nearly there. Stay awake - JW

"Here you go, mate. Good luck."

"Thanks." He threw more than enough money at the cabbie, before flying out of the car and bolting towards the building. All those times John had run with, or behind Sherlock Holmes, he had never run to him. He had also never run as fast as he was now.

First floor... second floor... third floor...

"Sherlock!"

It was some sort of abandoned warehouse. Water dripped down the walls and the building creaked, his shout echoed around the rooms.

No reply.

"Sherlock!" He tried again and strained his ears, listening for movement, breathing, anything.

He ran from room to room, frantically searching each one for his flat mate.

"John?" A small voice made its way down the stairwell from the floor above.

"Bloody hell. I'm coming Sherlock! Hold on for just one more minute."

He dashed up the stairs and onto the fourth floor, a single, enormous room with the thin body of his consulting detective slumped against one wall in only his underwear.

"Sherlock! It's alright. It's alright, Sherlock. Everything's fine, are you with me?" He ran towards his friend and knelt beside him. His chin was resting on his chest but his eyes were open and he tried to move his head when he felt John beside him. "It's alright, stay still. Lestrade's coming and he's bringing an ambulance, it's all going to be okay." He carefully lifted Sherlock's chin so he could examine his face.

A nasty gash ran from just above his right eyebrow, around into his hair, finishing above his ear on that side. Blood was caked onto his forehead, face and in his hair. His nose had clearly been bleeding profusely as a considerable amount of blood was dried around his mouth, chin, neck, and down to his chest. His face was covered in bruises and he whimpered as John touched a gentle finger to one cheekbone. Sherlock's skin was freezing and he was shaking violently.

"Where are your clothes, Sherlock? Do you have any?"

"Yes, I had... I had gotten dressed and I came into the living room and... they were there... and I..."

"It's alright. Where are your clothes?"

"I don't... I don't know. They took them off me after they... brought me up here."

"It's okay, I'll find them."

"It doesn't matter, I don't care."

"I don't want you getting sick, Sherlock. It's freezing in here."

After a few moments of searching, John's eyes settled on a pile of clothing dumped near the doorway. He quickly retrieved it, carrying it back to Sherlock.

"Let me just get you dressed and by then the police should be here. Are you alright?"

"It's... it's difficult to breathe."

"Does your chest hurt?" He looked up to see Sherlock's eyes roll back into his head as his body fell limp. John grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Sherlock! I need you to stay awake for me, okay?"

"I just need to have a little sleep, John."

"No, you don't. You can sleep later. Right now, I need you to help me."

John somehow managed to get Sherlock's trousers on, despite the fact that the detective could barely move. He then carefully wrapped Sherlock's long coat over his trembling shoulders and began looking over the wounds on his chest.

"What have they done to you?"

Sherlock's chest was also covered in blood from twin gashes that were cut deep, just below each collarbone. He had significant bruising on his abdomen and chest and John suspected at least two broken ribs.

"Do you know what these cuts mean? They must mean something." John ran a careful finger beneath one of them, frowning.

"It's hurting, John."

He had never seen Sherlock so genuinely vulnerable. John reached a hand out and threaded it into a clean part of Sherlock's hair, gently smoothing it back off of his face. "I know it's hurting. It's okay. It'll be over soon, Sherlock. Everything will be fine."

Finally, they heard the sounds of sirens getting gradually closer and John sighed in relief. "Can you hear that? They're coming. Not much longer now."

John's phone rang and he immediately answered, knowing it would be Lestrade.

"We're here, John, where are you?"

"Fourth floor."

"Is he alright?"

"No. He's... he's hurt... You need to hurry, he keeps blacking out."

John sat with his friend and waited, gently shaking Sherlock's shoulders every so often to wake him up. He could hear a number of sets of footsteps getting closer and closer until finally they reached the fourth floor.

Lestrade was the first man in the door, immediately scanning the room for them.

"John! Jesus, Sherlock. Can you hear me, mate?"

"I'm... I'm alright, Lestrade, it's just..."

"It's okay, Sherlock, don't talk," John shushed him.

"They don't think they can get a stretcher up here, John."

"We can carry him."

"I will not be carried. I will walk, thank you very..."

"Shut up, Sherlock, you're not walking. It'll just be John and me, alright? Anderson and Donovan aren't on duty tonight. There's nothing to worry about," said Lestrade as he and John lifted Sherlock from the ground, resulting in a pained moan from the detective.

Slowly and carefully, they carried him down the stairs, laying him on a stretcher which was instantly pushed into the ambulance, the doors closed behind it.

"Wait! Wait, I'm coming with him!" John could hear Sherlock's weak voice calling him from the inside of the van and he pulled the doors open, sitting in the next-of-kin seat beside the stretcher.

"John?"

"I'm here now, Sherlock, everything's alright."

Sherlock passed out in the ambulance and when they reached the hospital he was whisked away, leaving John an anxious mess in the waiting room.

"Where is he?" Mycroft Holmes suddenly appeared at his side, genuine concern etched across his features.

"They took him."

"Inspector Lestrade said he was quite badly injured."

"Yes."

"He's on his way. Had some things to sort out at the crime scene."

"Right."

"We've found the people responsible for this." John looked up, his eyebrows raised. "A Russian terrorist group. Not entirely sure what they wanted with him. Did he say anything?"

"He could barely talk."

"He'll be alright. He's stronger than he looks."

Mycroft actually sat with John for three hours (indisputably the most awkward three hours of John's life) until a doctor entered the waiting room.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, I'm John Watson." He stood.

"Mr. Holmes has you listed as his next-of-kin, is that correct?"

"I didn't know he had."

"Are you his next-of-kin?"

"Well," he glanced at Mycroft. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Right, come this way, please."

John followed, irritated when the doctor said nothing else.

"Is he alright?"

"He'll be fine. He was quite badly injured."

"Yeah, I know."

"We had to perform emergency surgery as he had some dangerous internal bleeding, but he's already recovering well. He's in intensive care."

"I hope that isn't true." Mycroft Holmes had somehow managed to follow them this far without either of them noticing him.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said."

"Mr. Holmes!" A small balding man came running over from a nearby nurses' station.

"Are you in charge here?"

"Yes, sir. Doctor Knight." He offered a hand for Mycroft to shake which was ignored. "What can I do for you? Are you in need of treatment?"

"No, this is about my brother, Sherlock Holmes. I understand that he's in your care."

"Tall fellow with dark hair, yes?"

"Yes. I need him moved out of intensive care and into a private room."

"Of course, we won't be a moment. Dr. Johnson, please see to that. We'll put him in room 114. I'll take you there, Mr. Holmes."

They waited in room 114 for fifteen minutes before a bed carrying a sleeping Sherlock Holmes was wheeled in. They'd messily cropped his hair short to get to the injury there, which they'd stitched up. An incredible number of wires and tubes were attached to the detective and John's hand rose to his mouth. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it was Sherlock. Sherlock was always fine, absolutely fine. He didn't need help. He was invincible. Indestructible.

"Right." Mycroft stood and addressed Dr. Knight. "Doctor Watson will be staying here with my brother. Is that right, John?"

"Yes, of course."

"He will need a proper bed, not a boarder-bed, dinner and some tea. Should he or my brother need anything in the night, they are to be given it. I will be back in the morning. Good night, John."

"We won't be a moment, Doctor Watson."

Both men disappeared and John was left with his broken detective.

"Sherlock," he sighed, sitting on the chair next to the bed. "Were you scared? I hope you weren't. Jesus you must be in a lot of pain. I'm so glad I found you, if I was any..."

"John?" His voice was barely a whisper, more of a rasp.

"I'm just here, Sherlock, it's alright, you're safe now."

The detective made a little humming noise as he reached a weak and trembling hand in John's direction.

"It's okay, Sherlock." He grabbed onto his flat mate's cold hand and held it tight. Sherlock relaxed a little and sighed. "Are you in pain?"

"I'm alright."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Water?"

"Just a minute." He filled a cup up from the jug on the bedside table and suddenly realised that Sherlock wouldn't be able to do this himself. "Can you lift your head up?"

The detective tried, winced, and shook his head.

"It's alright, I'll help you."

"No. I don't... I don't need help."

"Yes, you do." He slipped a hand beneath Sherlock's head and carefully lifted it until his lips met the cup.

He gulped down the entire cup of water and sighed as John lowered his head back into the pillows.

"Better?"

"Much. Thank you." He relaxed for a moment, staring at the ceiling before his eyes flicked back to John. "Are you staying?"

"Of course."

Another little hum. "Thank you, John."

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a little one-shot that I'd forgotten I wrote and found on my computer the other day. I um-ed and ah-ed for a bit and then I edited it and decided to just upload it. Anyways hope you guys enjoyed it :)


End file.
